


Homecoming

by RollingPeaches



Series: Get Shot and Fuckin' Die [8]
Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: Bennett - Freeform, Cunnilingus, F/M, Irene - Freeform, Smut, Swearing, cursing, hughes - Freeform, humphrey kills a bird, implied cunnilingus and fingering, reece - Freeform, riffer, shaw - Freeform, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 07:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollingPeaches/pseuds/RollingPeaches
Summary: Detective Lane continues healing and Captain Syverson prepares to leave Camp Warhorse.





	1. Intermezzo

Being far away while Lane was trying to heal from a gunshot was frustrating and irritating as hell. The first two weeks weren’t too bad. She’d been pretty drugged up for the remainder of her hospital stay. And then, when they sent her home, it was still pretty painful simply _breathing_. But once week three hit, she refused additional painkillers, demanded doing things on her own. He knew this because Samantha reported to Hughes, Hughes reported to him.

Occasionally, Samantha would report directly to him, like when she found Lane trying to do pushups. He and Lane had had a very serious conversation about that, and she’d gotten all small sounding and he felt like he was yelling at a puppy for wagging its tail.

“Jasmine,” he’d pitched his voice low in an effort to calm himself down, “You push this shit, and you might wind back up in the hospital,” he explained lowly, “Do you want to wind up in the hospital, have to start all over again?”

Silence, then a grudging, “No.”

“Then you have to be patient.”

“Fine.”

“And stop doing stupid shit, like working out three weeks after taking a bullet.”

Silence, then a scoff of breath, god he hoped she wasn’t crying. Then another resolute, “Fine.”

By week four, Hughes and Samantha started checking cold cases out to her, to keep her from going stir crazy during the day, since Samantha did actually have to go to work.

They were on week five and he was on his weekly call with Lane.

“What’s this week’s cold case about?” he asked.

“Cat burglar,” she hummed out, while sipping a mug of hot chocolate while sitting on her back porch. “Is it bad that I always picture Cat Woman, when I say cat burglar?”

“That’s a safe association to have,” he stated.

She nodded resolutely, not that he could see it. They were both quiet, so much to say but neither willing to say it. They were exhausted, angry, and chomping at the bit to be anywhere but their current locations. Jasmine heard a ruckus coming from her fence, and looked up in time to see Humphrey jumped down, bird in his small jaws.

“Humphrey!” She called, “Don’t you bring me that bird, I don’t want it.”

Humphrey, did not listen, instead he continued trotting towards her, paused halfway there and sufficiently killed the bird, then continued towards her, spitting the bird at her feet and rubbing against her legs.

“Humphrey the smooshed face cat that sneaks out sometimes?” Syverson asked, and she sucked in a breath and held it. How could he know about Humphrey? She’d never told him. He’d never even been to her place, unless…unless her feeble memory of him from the hospital was real, not something she’d imagined out of pain medication and hope of some sort of comfort. 

“Yeah, that Humphrey,” she confirmed then whispered out, “Did you come see me in the hospital?”

Silence then, “Yeah, Lane, I did.”

“I-I don’t really…remember, just, it was like a dream.”

“The nurses said that was possible, likely even,” he tried to assure,

Her breath caught in her throat, eyes stung, she was going to cry. Humphrey reared up on his hind legs, front paws digging into her thigh and kneading. She patted his head absently. Breathed in sharply. _Don’t cry_.

“It’s alright, Lane,” he drawled soothingly. It wasn’t. She bent forward slightly, set on resting her head on the metal table she had out there, but her chest practically _spasmed_ in protest. She sat back in annoyance, panting a breath now, because _ow_. “I miss you,” she whispered out.

If she could see him, she would have seen him tilt his head away, eyes pinched shut in silent agony, but she couldn’t see him, “I miss you too, Lane.”

“I wish I could remember more of you at the hospital.”

“What do you remember?”

She thought, it was hard to put into words. “It was mostly just a feeling.”

“A feeling?” he repeated.

“Yeah—no, Humphrey, don’t,” Humphrey jumped up on her and promptly liked her hand, “Ugh, you just killed a bird with that mouth, don’t lick me,” she scooped him up and put him on top of the table.

“Like there was a stretch where I felt really,” she breathed out, glancing around for the words, “I don’t know, and then there’s a stretch where I didn’t feel that.”

A stretch where she didn’t feel the I don’t know, good to know, very informative.

“I guess I felt safe,” she added on a whisper, patting Humphery’s head.

Syverson had survived over a year in this shithole and what was going to end him was a 5 foot 4 detective who sassed anything that moved being sweet for five seconds.

“I was there for a couple days. A certain Senator made arrangements.”

There was a quiet scoff, “That mean I have to invite her to the next barbecue?”

“It would be the polite thing to do.”

“No,” she stated firmly, absolutely not, screw her.

There was a light chuckle on the other end.

“I had a follow up appointment,” she informed.

He waited.

“Doctor says another two to three weeks. He gave me breathing exercises. I never thought breathing could be so freaking hard.”

Two to three weeks, making it a total of 8 weeks, that didn’t seem long enough, she got shot in the chest for fuck’s sake, how was that adequate healing time? He kept silent, though, because he recalled being shot himself, a while ago, before he’d become an officer, he’d been chomping at the bit to get back at it.

“What’s Hughes say?”

She shrugged, “Something about light duty for a little bit, ease back in.”

“That’s probably good.”

“Yeah,” she hummed agreement, which was scary, her agreeing to take it easy. He was half tempted to think it was a ploy. Before he could set up a plan to broach the subject, she stated, “I think I’m gonna leave the dead bird for Samantha to clean up.”

And the thought of Samantha in her pencil skirts and stilettos cleaning up a dead bird was enough to get a full laugh from him.

*****

Two more weeks passed and she was already demanding to return to duty. He had roughly, a week and a half left at Warhorse. And he needed to get the hell back to the states if not just to simply sit on her so she wouldn’t overdo it. Hughes of course caved and let her on the condition that it was strictly light duty, mostly sitting at her desk. Syverson knew the man would cave further, she’d be going to crime scenes within the week.

“Lane,” he said into the phone.

“Hey,” she sounded good, happy, voice no longer laced with pain, but optimistic with the promise of returning to work tomorrow.

“Tell me you aren’t going to do anything stupid.”

He could hear her smile, “I won’t do anything stupid, Sy,” she even tacked on an earnest, “I promise.”

So of course, she went and did something stupid and talked Hughes into putting her back on the roster and was seeing a crime scene by Friday. Further, she kicked Samantha out as soon as she returned to work, so there was no telling if she was actually eating healthy food and taking it easy on physical activity.

Syverson was certain he wasn’t going to get out of Baqubah without beating someone to death and being court martialed because he was constantly distracted and pissed off. He wasn’t the only one, everyone’s tempers had shortened, there were a few fights, even among his own team, which meant he had to keep a fucking lid on his shit, otherwise he’d look like a hypocrite for bitching everyone out and making them clean their weapons for three hours.

Finally, their replacements showed up, they gave them the run down, and were fucking out of Warhorse and on their way to the airbase. They were put up in giant ass tents, that were hot as hell and full of a bunch of smelly ass men. But they were on their way out, so that was okay.

“First thing you’re gonna do when you get stateside?” Collins asked, “Burger, Booze, or Babes?”

Syverson shook his head, and the others crowed their answers.

“What about you, Cap?” Riffer asked.

“Aw,” Shaw cut in, “he’s gonna go see his Detective.”

Riffer, the newest of the group, had heard tale of the detective, but not much actually from Syverson himself, so he took most of it with a grain of salt.

“She got herself shot, so he’s gonna be sitting on her, make sure she doesn’t pop any stitches.”

“Just sitting?” Bennett asked on a mutter.

“Careful,” Syverson intoned lowly.

Bennett held up an apologetic hand, and Syverson shifted his gaze to Shaw, who tilted his head in apology.

They were holed up in the tent for a good five days, two more than they had been scheduled. A negative to the tent, he didn’t have access to call Jasmine, had to wait his turn like everyone else. But he did, and gave her the updated information. Probably home a day later than anticipated.

Then they were finally, finally getting on a plane, only the plane, of course, wasn’t making one trip to the US. It had to deviate, make a good three stops before they got home. And then, when the landed in Germany, but hadn’t been granted permission to get off the plane for four hours. They learned that some part was malfunctioning and it was going to be another two days before they could get back up in the air. Command almost had a damn mutiny on their hands but contained it, barely. They made it into hotel rooms finally, and he immediately grabbed up the phone and locked himself in the bathroom for privacy.

“Detective Lane,” she greeted.

“Hey,” his voice was angry and tense, even he could hear it.

“Sy,” she hummed out, the tension in his shoulders loosened the barest amount. “Is everything okay?”

“Plane broke, we’re stuck in Germany.”

“Damn,” she muttered, and he could hear the disappointment. “At this point, it’d be easier just to book your own flight home,” she stated. It would, but they wouldn’t let him.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Where in Germany?” she asked.

“Frankfurt.”

“Ooohh,” she crowed quietly, “Are you gonna go to the red-light district?”

He grunted, “no.”

“Why not? Legal prostitution, strip clubs,” she tried to lure him in.

“For one, it’s illegal for any US service member to solicit prostitution, punishable by one year in jail and dishonorable discharge.”

“Shit, that’s harsh,” she muttered. “Is that really enforced, or is that like our shitty department policy, where the _real_ policy is, don’t get caught with your dick in the cookie jar, and you’re good?”

He snorted, “Probably a little of both.”

“Huh,” she mused.

“Can we please stop talking about prostitutes.”

She scoffed out a laugh, “Sure.”

“Probably gonna be another two days,” he broke the news.

“Bummer,” she mumbled out.

“Yeah.”

“Are you allowed to drink?” she asked. “Germany has good beer, right?”

“Yeah, probably go out with a few of the guys, here in a bit.”

“Don’t let me hold you up, beer will probably make you feel better. Just, ya know, don’t get too drunk and disorderly, I don’t think I have any cop friends in Germany.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he drawled out.

“Right, well, see you in…let’s say five days, that way I don’t get my hopes up.”

God, he hoped it wasn’t five days. “See you soon.”

“Bye, Sy, have fun.” Jasmine hung up and pressed the side of the phone into her forehead. _Damnit_. She glanced down at the giant pile of brownies she’d baked, then to the bowl of brownie batter she had in front of her. Well, they wouldn’t go bad in a few days. She would just have to make sure she didn’t stress eat them all waiting for Sy to show up.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Syverson makes it stateside, unfortunately, Detective Lane can't meet him at the airport so she sends a trusted friend to help her out.

Lane had strategically planned her outfit, nothing too colorful, or anything that was too provocative. But a nice sweater dress with leggings, nothing flowy, because the probability of her flashing someone was far greater in a flowy dress, that and it was still kinda cold. Her phone went off and she glanced down to see Reece was calling her, “Hey.”

“We caught a body,” his voice was serious.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” She stressed, “I’m supposed to pick up Sy.”

“I know.”

“Shit,” she muttered, “Text me the address, I’ll meet you there.”

Apparently, the stupid thing that she went and did was insisting to go back to work before Sy got back. He was, of course, supposed to have been there three days ago, but with the delay then the plane breaking down in Germany. Which, how did a plane break down without killing everyone?

She looked back in the mirror, nope, she yanked off the dress and leggings, pulled on her usual skinny jeans, followed by a nice sweater and a leather jacket. That would have to do, because she wasn’t showing up to a crime scene in a sweater dress. She picked up her phone and called his cell, which he had given to her once he had it returned to him.

She got his voicemail, which meant that he was probably already descending, shit, “Hey,” she greeted the voicemail, “I’m _really_ sorry, but a body dropped, and I can’t make it to the airport to pick you up. I’m-uh-sending a uni, though, you can have him take you wherever you want, just, call me and let me know. Right, _sorry_ , bye.” She hung up. _Damnit_. Then she grabbed her shit and headed out the door to her crime scene.

Once there, she found the uni in question, “Hey,” she greeted dryly.

“Detective Lane.”

“Officer Johnson,” she held out the sign she’d written as well as the terminal and gate Syverson would be at. “I need you to pick up someone at the airport.”

He blinked, holding the items to his chest.

“Then what?”

“Take him wherever he wants to go, home, hotel, Disneyland,” she ordered, then started around him.

“Uh, Detective Lane, I’m supposed to—”

“Thanks, Johnson,” she nodded, striding through the yard. She came to a stop once she got to the backyard, wow, she stared. She had thought, after being a uniformed cop, SWAT, sex crimes, and now homicide for two years, that she would have seen every possible way for a human to die, apparently not.

She continued to Reece and stopped, staring up. “Wow,” she stated.

“Right?” Reece didn’t even look at her, just continued staring as well. “You set up for someone to pick up Sy?”

“I’m sending Johnson.”

Reece finally looked her way, “Because he fucked up at your house?”

She shrugged, walking towards the fence, still looking up. “How’re we gonna get him down?” she asked. Their victim was full on _impaled_ on the fence. She glanced to the house, then the neighbor’s house.

“How did he _get_ up there? Even if he was pushed,” she gestured towards the houses and shook her head, “I don’t think he would have made it this far.”

“Fell out of a plane?” Reece suggested.

She grimaced in disapproval, “Check flight logs I guess,” she conceded. “We have ID?”

Irene appeared, one of her assistants lugging a giant ladder behind her. “Hello, darling. Give me a minute, I’ll see if we have a wallet.”

“Perfect,” Irene patted her on the arm then once the ladder was set up, clambered up it in her ridiculous heels and pencil skirt. A uniform scrambled, holding arms up, ready to catch her if she careened off the ladder, Irene sent her a sly wink and went about examining the body and searching out the man’s wallet.

*****

Syverson lowered his phone, and scanned the crowed, looking at the clothes, not the faces, Jasmine had caught a case, and said she was sending a uni instead. He started to the right and paused, catching sight of a uniformed officer, his gaze dropped to the sign and he blinked. Captain Pain in the Ass. His gaze flicked up to the uniform who winced, “Please tell me you’re not Syverson,” the man begged.

His lips twitched upwards, “What’d you do to piss off Lane?”

“ _Everything_ ,” the uni, the last name read Johnson, lowered his sign, and gestured, “We’re that way.”

Syverson followed after him, bag over his shoulder and his other dragging behind him. Once they got to the patrol car, he reached for the backdoor to dump his stuff, but the uni shook his head quickly, “No, no,” then his nose wrinkled in disgust, “The trunk,” he popped it open and grabbed up one of Syverson’s bags, “Back seats are repulsive, I mean, we clean them, but,” he shivered, “ _no_.”

They climbed into the car and Johnson pulled into traffic, “Lane said to take you wherever you want, including Disneyland,” he informed.

“How long will she be at the crime scene?”

“She’s…” Johnson paused, “Thorough.”

Syverson could think of a few better ways to describe her: _Obsessive. Demanding. Fixated. A royal pain in his ass_. Johnson glanced to the dashboard, “Probably be another forty-five minutes or so, then she’ll head back to the precinct.”

“Precinct it is,” Sy stated.

“Right.”

*****

Lane made it back to the precinct and there was no sign of Syverson or Johnson. She deflated a bit, maybe he went home, took a shower, hell, that’d probably be the first thing she would want to do. She sat down and immediately set to work, running background on their victim, a man by the name of Brock McGinny. Not exactly the most law-abiding citizen, a few assaults, some weapons charges. Oh, this was interesting, former military. Okay, so…interesting. Her computer let out a chime, indicating she’d received an e-mail. She opened it up to see crime scene photos. She clicked through to the weird one. The weird object that was sticking out of the man’s side. She picked up her work phone and dialed Irene.

“Lane,” Reece prompted.

She ignored him and continued scrutinizing the crime scene photo while calling the medical examiner and emailing the crime scene tech, because what the hell _was_ that thing?

“Lane.”

“Busy,” she muttered out.

A hand shot out and ended the call. Her gaze snapped up from her email, “What the hell, Reece?” she demanded.

Her partner, turned her chair and pointed towards the back entrance of the bullpen. She blinked, gaze landing on the man leaning into the doorframe. She knew that guy. That was Syverson. That was her man. She shot out of her chair and crossed the bullpen, she didn’t run, thank you very much. She put her hand in his chest and pushed, while still moving and opened the door. Once in the hallway, she glanced up to the interview rooms, found an unoccupied one and shoved him into the observation side. She threw the lock, then proceeded to jump up and wrap her legs around his waist, and buried her face in his neck.

“Hi,” she whispered out. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, the other carded up her back, his hand resting on the back of her neck, holding her to him. Time ceased to exist. She just breathed him in. 

“You gonna get down any time soon, or should I take a seat, get comfortable?”

“You don’t wanna sit down, you’ve been cooped up in a plane for hours. You just want me to get down so you can kiss me. But I’m not done hugging you. So you’re just gonna have to wait.”

He leaned back slightly, rested back against the wall and waited, granted he was enjoying the tight hug as much as she was, though he loosened his arm suddenly.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“Huh?” she mumbled into his neck.

He ghosted fingertips over her ribs, “GSW,” he muttered.

“Oh,” she shook her head, “I’m fine.”

He grunted something unintelligible, then muttered, “Can I kiss you now?”

She pulled her face from his neck and grinned a little, “Okay.”

His hand on her neck moved up to the back of her head, and pulled her lips down to his, tipping his chin upwards. The kiss was gentle but urgent and intense and hungry. She brought her hands up, cupped either side of his face, but finally had to pull away because breathing was a necessity to continued existence. She stared down at his lips, panting, him as well, and then tracked her gaze to his eyes, which were locked on her own lips. They needed to stop, they were at her work after all. But then she was pressing down to his mouth again. And this was definitely worth the wait. She shifted, realized Sy was walking, then his was sitting down in one of the chairs, she was straddling him, and they _really_ needed to stop, because she was at _work_. She pulled back, pecked his lips, once, twice, three times then mumbled, “We gotta stop.”

He grunted, didn’t say anything, his eyelids all hooded and heavy. And _that_ was a look all of its own.

“Stop,” she repeated, trying to force her breathing even.

His hands were on her hips, gave a gentle squeeze, “’m not doin’ anythin’.”

She wiggled a finger near his face, “That.” She stated, “That look, stop it.”

His lips turned upwards slowly, the cat that got the canary. He pulled her closer, nuzzled his nose against hers, gave another gentle kiss, then simply pressed his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes, breathed with him. All of the tension from the last week, waiting to find out when, if, he was actually going to return home, eased away, left her with relief and a strange electricity that he was so close and she could actually _touch_ him.

“I gotta go back to work,” she muttered grudgingly, “I’m leaving early,” she stated.

“Hughes approved?”

“Screw Hughes,” she dismissed the notion, while standing up.

“What do you have on that man, that lets you get away with everything?”

She sent him a coy look before heading towards the door, “Everything.”

Syverson stood and followed her out, back into the bullpen. She headed straight for her desk, so he took that to mean, he’d be sitting around for a little bit.

“That was way too fast even for a quickie.”

Jasmine jerked and turned a look at Reece, “What?”

He shrugged, “I mean, not like Lex and I haven’t gotten a little nookie in a conference room.”

She stared, “Alexis?” she clarified, prim proper, badass Alexis got nookie in a conference room?

“That’s disgusting, do you know how dirty those rooms are?”

Reece shrugged, “I do, she doesn’t.”

Jasmine grimaced, glancing to Syverson to see that he looked mildly entertained, “no,” she muttered with a shake of her head, “ _hell_ no.”

She dropped into her chair, “I have to finish some paper work, then we get outta here?” she asked.

He slouched into the chair next to her desk, legs sprawled wide, he dipped his chin towards his chest in a nod, “Sure.”

“Awesome,” she mumbled, then grabbed up the phone and dialed Irene.

“Oh my goodness,” Irene greeted, “I hear your Syverson is here, keep him here, I’m coming to meet him, just give me an hour.” She heard the distinct sound of ribs being snapped.

She turned slightly, her back going to Syverson, “Have we extracted the unknown object from our victim?”

“Just did, I sent a new picture,” Jasmine turned, leaning for the mouse of her computer and clicking to her email.

“Huh,” she stated, staring at the item, “It’s…metal?” she asked.

“Correct, I sent it off to Melv to try and figure it out.”

“Right. Okay. Anything else?”

Irene rattled off mostly what they already knew, estimated time of death, cause of death, signs of a struggle.

“Right, thanks Irene,” she hung up before the woman could demand she stay or give details on Syverson. She turned to see Sy studying something on her desk. He nudged it with a finger, then picked it up, “What’s this?”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. He was holding one of her sand bottles. She turned her attention back to her paperwork, blushing a little.

“A bottle,” she stated without looking up from her report.

“What’s in it?”

“Sand,” she deadpanned, and glanced up in time to catch a predatory grin tugging his lips upwards.

“Where’s it from?”

“The desert, I would imagine.”

“Like from Baqubah?”

She leaned forward, snatched the bottle from his hand, and dropped it into one of her drawers, letting the draw close with a resounding _thud_ , and went back to her paperwork.

“You know…” he pondered, “I think I saw a couple of those at your house.”

She sent him a scathing look and he returned it with an easy grin. “Are you gonna keep giving me shit, or shut up so I can finish my paperwork?”

“Can’t do both?”

“Not if we want to get outta here before Irene shows up,” she muttered sending a look towards the door.

He arched a brow.

“She’ll steal you. She’s a witch, plays with dead bodies and everything.”

“She’s our medical examiner,” Reece supplied from his desk.

“Witchcraft, she’ll have you tied around her little finger in no time. Spill all your deepest darkest secrets, and then she’ll eat you.”

“They’re friends,” Reece deadpanned.

“You’re a man, you’re completely blind to her ways.”

Syverson looked torn between meeting Irene, and wanting to get the fuck outta there for… _other_ reasons.

“Your funeral,” she hummed out, then, “well,” she inclined her head lower, towards his crotch, and arched her brow. Syverson got her meaning, she could tell, but he remained completely Unbothered™, his gaze kinda did the wonky thing, but more bored than murder-y. But she did get to go back to her paperwork in complete silence. She finished in thirty minutes, then stood, signing out of her computer, locking her desk, and grabbing up her bag.

“Let’s go,” she muttered.

Syverson stood right away, practically at attention, grabbed up his bags as well.

“Yeah, sure, just leave!” Reece yelled over the bullpen. “I’ll call if something turns up.”

“Please, don’t,” she called back.

“You just had a two-month vacation, you gotta pull your weight.”

“I pulled _your_ weight,” she called back stepping into the hallway. Syverson shook his head as he followed after her.


	3. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Syverson and Detective Lane share a bed, temporarily, then share some food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poorly written smut, or well, partial smut?

As soon as she had the door closed and locked, he was on her. Lips gentle, then bruising, kisses deep then feathery light. And she was beginning to realize that the one time they’d had sex they’d both been injured, she didn’t know a thing about fucking Syverson when he was at one hundred percent. They stumbled their way to her bedroom. Him laughing lowly, her giggling lightly when they tripped on something, or bumped into a wall. Then he was hurriedly stepping out of his boots, and shucking his uniform, she returned favor, undoing her boots and yanking them off, throwing her jacket off to the side. She plucked her holster, extra clip, and handcuffs and put them on the bedside table.

Before she could start on her pants, he’d picked her up and tossed her onto the bed. She landed with a soft _oof_ but it was more than just surprise, his eyes narrowed slightly as he put his knee in the bed and reached for the button on her jeans. He peeled those off, followed by her blank panties, he pressed a hot kiss to her knee, worked his way up her thigh, kissing and nibbling with his teeth, beard scraping a pathway up as well.

Mouth still nipping along her inner thighs, his hands came up and started shoving her sweater out of the way. He shifted, mouth going to her other thigh, her eyes closed, but then she lost his mouth.

“Why are you stopping?” she demanded quietly, eyes opening. He finished pulling the sweater over her head and examined her chest, not her chest as in her tits, as in her _ribs_. He was checking the freaking gunshot wound, the chest tube incision, and—yep—he was shifting her to her side to check her back for where they’d used small incisions to remove her bone fragments.

“We aren’t fucking,” he stated resolutely letting her rock back onto her back.

She stared at him. “What?”

He shook his head, “These could still re-open.”

“They took out the stitches.”

“Exactly.”

What? There was no ‘exactly’. She moved to sit up but he planted a callous-roughened hand right below her collar bones and held her down. He shook his head again, “It’s too risky, Lane.”

“It’s not too risky. It’s fine, Sy.”

He sat back on his haunches, looking about as stubborn as a mule. She grabbed one of her many pillows, pressed it to her face, and _yelled_.

“You are the honest to god _worst_ , you know that Syverson?” she demanded, winging the pillow down the bed at him. He caught it against his chest no problem.

“This is becoming a habit, I think I threatened to shoot you last time,” she angled up the bed and rolled onto her side, reaching for her weapon half-heartedly, he grabbed her by the thighs and tugged her down the bed.

“You aren’t gonna shoot me,” he stated, holding her legs against him, lips tugging upwards.

“It’s fine,” she tried again, forcing her voice into calm and not frustration. “They aren’t gonna open,” she ran her hands up his chest.

“I’m not risking that. You wanna miss more work?”

No, she did not, and he knew it, she didn’t say anything.

“You’re a tease, Hank Syverson,” she told the ceiling. His face came into view, a slow grin spreading across his lips, “I said we aren’t fucking, I didn’t say you weren’t gonna get off.”

She managed to stay grouchy and pouty leading up to her first orgasm, by her second she was only throwing sass, and by the third, she was a puddle of soft sighs and little moans and squeaks. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, he was rather partial to the sighs, but the squeaks were cute as hell. Jasmine was trying to determine if she liked his lips, tongue, or fingers better. Either way, her muscles were all relaxed and liquid-y, she reached blindly for him, skimmed her fingers over his hip and moved inwards. But he caught her wrist in his hand, shook his head with a quiet grunt.

“What?” she mumbled out.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he informed.

She blinked, “Are you seriously going to jerk off in my shower instead of letting me get you off?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he climbed off the bed, found his bag, then disappeared into her adjoining bathroom. He even threw the lock, what an ass. She sighed up at the ceiling, then forced her relaxed body into moving. She scooped up her panties and bra and put them back on. Then she searched through her bedside table drawers, glanced around, then padded into her living room and went through the drawers in her cabinet until she found what she was looking for. She padded back into her bedroom and proceeded to pick the lock on the bathroom door. Syverson was peering out of the shower door at her, then grinned with a shake of his head and ducked back into the shower.

She perched on the sink counter top and waited until he had finished his shower. He reached out, grabbed the towel and wiped himself dry while still in the shower. Then wrapped it around his waist and stepped out. His gaze slanted over her, then he leaned in close, reached behind her and grabbed his clothes. She tipped her chin upwards and kissed him, but he didn’t fall for it, stepping back he dropped the towel and stepped into his boxer-briefs.

“When are you planning on fucking me?” she asked, “So I can pencil that in next to paperwork and chasing bad guys.”

He put one hand on the counter right next to her thigh, and leaned in, his free hand came up, the backs of his fingers running up her rib cage, “When these are better.”

“They are better,” she murmured, eyes on his lips.

“They’re better than they were, doesn’t mean they’re better.”

“If I get a doctor note, signed, dated, and notarized, will you?”

He smirked, pushing off the counter, “No.”

“You are the most frustrating human being I have ever met,” she told him.

“That’s just because you haven’t met yourself,” he countered with a grin, then tugged on a pair of jeans, followed by a black short-sleeved t-shirt, that _did_ things.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, “I’m hungry.” She dropped down from the counter, forcing him back a step, and strolled out. He went through his bag, found the remainder of his toiletries, then exited the bathroom. She wasn’t in sight, so he made his way to the kitchen. He spotted a plate of brownies, _shit yes_. He reached out and snagged one, while she was pulling stuff out of the fridge.

“Mmm,” he groaned out, head tilting back to the ceiling briefly, “’s good,” he stated around his mouthful, “Jonah?”

She glanced over to him, “No, I made them.”

He paused mid-chew and stared at her. She turned back and continued pulling food from the fridge. Syverson chewed quickly and swallowed. “You don’t even know how to feed yourself and you’re telling me you made these?” he held up his brownie.

“I know how to cook,” she stated a little defensive, “ _And_ bake. It’s just time consuming,” she muttered, pulling the lids off the containers.

“You wouldn’t even make yourself an MRE.”

“It’s time consuming,” she repeated, pulling plates down from the cabinet.

“It takes thirty seconds.”

“Are you going to eat the food I cooked you or should I kick you out?”

He dropped his gaze to the food, eyes widening. She emptied a container into a sauce pan, looked like pulled pork, and started heating it up. She powered up the oven and stuffed a glass dish with mac ‘n’ cheese in it. There was also coleslaw, and cucumber salad, and green beans with a thick slice of bacon. After a year and some months with MREs, no way he was turning his nose up.

He pulled out the chair and sat down obediently. She arched a brow and tutted, “Mm-hmm,” before going back to the stove to reheat the green beans. Once everything that needed to be reheated was going, he reached out, hooked his arm low around her hips and pulled her to him.

“Who taught you to cook?” he asked, pulling her between his legs, settling in for a long story.

She rested her hands on his shoulders, “No one. My family’s screwy, remember?”

“So, you had to teach yourself?” he asked.

She shrugged, “Well, recipes are usually self-explanatory, and when they aren’t, youtube is a thing.”

“Why’s your family so screwy?” he asked.

She evaded the question by asking, “Why’s any family screwy?”

“My family’s screwy, but no one’s ever been stabbed at a family reunion, or, well, elsewhere.”

She didn’t say anything for a beat, “What’s your family like, then?” she asked.

Syverson gave her the out. “I have three brothers. Mom and dad are still married.”

She eyed him a moment, eyes narrowed slightly, “Second oldest.”

“No,” he stated. Her head canted to the side a moment and he caved, “Yeah.”

She grinned victoriously.

“You have siblings?” he asked. Her fingers started fidgeting, her hands wrapped around the back of his neck he could feel them twining together, then running along the nape of his neck. Her gaze flicked around the room.

“Yeah,” she answered vaguely. She realized she should probably actually share something, in terms of her family, how many siblings she had wasn’t too bad of a conversation. “I had a brother. The rest are half siblings…I have a lot of half siblings.”

He waited a beat, she didn’t share further, so he decided to leave it be for now. “So, who’s brownie recipe is that?” he nodded his head towards the plate on the counter.

She grinned, “Some lady named Jan. I met her when I was a uni, someone stole her car. She gave me the recipe. I’ve changed a couple things, but the rest is Jan.”

“And the pulled pork?” he asked.

She smiled, “You have to try it first.”

She pulled away, gave everything a stir, then added in some extra barbeque sauce on the pork. He eyed the unmarked bottle and asked, “You make your own sauce,” he noted. She sent him a grin over her shoulder.

“Here,” she held out the fork, meat and sauce on it, “Try.”

He didn’t take the fork, simply leaned forward, and wrapped his mouth around the meat before sitting back with an appreciative hum. “Shit,” he muttered, wiping sauce off his bottom lip with his thumb and licking it off.

“Sauce is all me” she declared with a little pride, “I harassed Reece’s mother, Alexis’ grandmother, _and_ Grouch’s wife, for their recipes, took two years, but I’ve perfected it.”

She finally declared everything ready and they dug in. Sy held up a hand, “This is it,” he declared, waving his hand to encompass all of the food.

“What?” She asked.

“Heaven,” he stated.

She grinned, “You’re easy to please, Syverson.”


	4. God, I Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Lane continues investigating the man from the sky and, despite her best efforts, meets Captain Syverson's brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to post this otherwise I was going to sit on it for all eternity due to the fact that I'm not happy with it.

A week later found Jasmine with no leads on the dead dude who fell out of the sky. She was perched on the back of her couch staring across at the wall where she’d taped up all the crime scene photos and pictures of the evidence. They still had absolutely no clue as to what the hell had been lodged in the guy’s side either.

“Jasmine,” she jerked and turned to see Syverson standing in her doorway.

“Been calling your name for the past three minutes.”

She blinked, “Sorry,” she waved her hand towards the wall, “I was thinking.”

He glanced to the wall, then did a double take, “Is he impaled on a fence?”

“Yeah,” she sighed out a little wistfully. “My first body that’s dropped from the sky. I’d thought I’d seen all the ways to die,” she turned back to him, “Humans keep surprising me.”

A brow quirked quizzically, he couldn’t tell if she was sad about that or impressed. Perhaps, simply realistic.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she dropped onto the couch cushion, yanked on her boots, grabbed up her keys and followed him out. His brother, Marshall, had been keeping his truck for him while he was deployed, they were going to pick it up. The drive was a good forty-five minutes, they pulled up to the house, and he leveraged out.

“You wanna wait here?” he asked.

She slanted a look his way with a slight grin, “Too early for family introductions?” she asked.

He gave a slight shrug, gaze shifting away then back. She grinned and stayed in the car. He strode up to the house, but a man who definitely had to be his brother, was already coming out. He grabbed him up in a giant hug, lifted Syverson clear off the ground, dropped him back down, and thumped his back violently.

Syverson was actually smiling, unabashed smiling, she’d only seen a few of those. They started towards the garage, his brother pressing in the code and it cranking open. They disappeared into the garage. Five minutes ticked by, then ten. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it to see a text from Reece. _Irene found something_. Shit. She texted back she was 45 minutes, be there ASAP. The truck backed out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the street. Syverson angled out, rounding the truck, his brother hopped out of the passenger seat, his gaze tracking towards her and double taking. Yikes, he did not look pleased. He nodded towards her while speaking to Syverson, who didn’t bother following his gaze and said something in return. Big bro did not look happy and started _stalking_ towards her.

“Shit,” she muttered, yanked her keys out of the ignition and kicked her door open. She’d just hip checked the door closed when he stopped in front of her. He gave her a none-too-subtle once over, and didn’t look impressed.

“So, what, you’re fucking my brother?” he asked down at her.

She grinned, gaze slanting to Sy who looked like he was two seconds away from throttling his brother. “God, I wish,” she sighed out dramatically. Marshall blinked down at her. “See, I got shot, like two months ago, stitches are out and everything, but this dude,” she gestured to Sy, “He’s gone all self-righteous on me, says we have to wait,” she waved her hand in the air, “until they’re _healed_.”

Syverson dipped his chin, stared down at his boots for a moment, before peering towards his brother.

“I’m Jasmine Lane,” she held out her hand.

“Marshall,” he stated, though he didn’t extend his hand, her brows flicked up, she sent a look to Sy but dropped her hand. “I have to go,” she informed, holding up her phone, “Reece texted, Irene’s got something.”

He nodded, then angled between her and his brother, his back to her. “How ‘bout you go crack some beers open, we shoot the shit?” he suggested, Marshall didn’t move right away but he eventually backed away and started for the house. Syverson turned to face her and breathed out, she offered an apologetic grin and a nose scrunch.

“Don’t take it personal, he doesn’t like any of the women I bring around.”

“Oh, you have a lot of women?” she asked up at him, leaning back against her car door.

He scoffed out his surprise, “Not—no. That’s not what I meant.”

She grinned, his gaze narrowed and turned astute. “You wanna swing by my place tomorrow? Some of the guys are comin’ over for a beer, throw somethin’ on the grill.”

She thought it over, not necessarily certain on that. “Is Aika gonna be there?” she asked.

He shook his head, “I swear, you’re only with me for the dog.”

She tilted her head to the side, “Make sure you tell your brother. _He’ll_ love that.”

“Well?” he prompted.

“Yeah, maybe,” she shrugged, “Can’t imagine this case is going anywhere.”

He studied her a moment then nodded, “Right,” then he stepped closer, she tipped her head back slightly to better look at him.

“Ignore him, he’s an asshole,” he bent a little.

She offered a small smirk, “I’ve met meaner people in your presence, Sy,” she assured. He pressed closer, “Yeah, but this one’s my brother.”

“That matters?” she asked, he didn’t answer, simply kissed her. And it was really nice, except she was about eighty-nine percent sure that his brother was spying on them from the kitchen window, and her phone started vibrating in her hand. “Shit,” she muttered pulling back and glancing at her screen.

“It’s Reece, I gotta go,” she informed, he stepped back and opened the car door for her.

“It’s not self-righteous to not have sex with you because you’re injured,” he informed.

She snorted, “Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Sy,” she agreed sarcastically, shoving her key into the ignition and starting the Jeep, then answered her phone on the last ring, “Yeah?”

“Why the hell are you forty-five minutes away?”

“Why? What’d’you have?”

“Irene found something or other about a foreign agent in the blood, I don’t know.”

“On my way,” she muttered, holding up a hand to Sy as he rounded the hood of her car. He gave a nod and started towards his brother’s house.

In terms of ground breaking evidence, Irene did not find any. She simply found traces of drugs, specifically, Adderall.

“Did he have a prescription?”

“Working on finding that out.”

“Right,” she nodded, scribbling it down in her little notebook.

*****

Jasmine was late getting to Sy’s place. She and Reece had started the day hitting the pavement. They started back from scratch. Went to their victim’s house, his last job, the park near his house, his favorite bar. They made everyone awkward, forced conversations, managed to get a few more answers but they still had not one singular clue as to why the hell he was in an airplane and who the hell he was with, or what the hell that metal thing was in his abdomen. She was just pulling herself into her car when her phone started buzzing.

“Yeah?” she greeted.

“Should I throw a steak on or no?” Syverson greeted.

“I’m leaving now,” she informed.

“Right, if you aren’t here in fifteen minutes, Aika’s gettin’ your steak.”

“That’s acceptable,” she agreed.

She pulled up eleven minutes later and hopped out. Striding up the walkway and stairs she was greeted by a barking Aika.

“Hi, baby,” she greeted. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Aika paused in her barking.

“Let me love you,” she cooed, holding out her hand through the screen door. Aika sniffled her hand then yipped. 

“Aika,” she heard Syverson call, and the dog disappeared into the house, tail wagging as she went. Jasmine opened the door and stepped in, Aika came running to great her.

“There’s my baby,” she greeted, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the dog.

“She just ate raw steak,” he warned.

“I’ve had a man’s brains spattered all over my face and you think I’m concerned about dog drool?” she asked, smooshing Aika’s ears back fondly, then standing, she pulled off her boots, and crossed to him.

“I care about dog drool,” he countered.

“Why?”

“I’m not kissing you after the dog.”

Her brows flicked up, gaze slanted over him, “She’s your dog.”

He shrugged. “Steak,” he held up a plate, “baked potato,” he pointed to a mound of aluminum foil.

“Ooh,” she mumbled, “A man after my own heart,” she pulled a potato out of the foil and dropped it onto the plate, stood on her toes to give Syverson a kiss, then dropped down onto her heels, and took the plate from him.

“How’s your day?” he asked, opening a drawer for silverware.

“Stupid,” she stated.

He arched a brow in silent question.

“People are lying liar pants who lie,” she informed, stabbing the potato. “The next time I have to go to that shitty bar, and deal with their shitty attitudes, and I don’t get the truth, I’m threatening to shoot people.”

“Is that department policy?” he drawled out lowly.

“No,” she responded curtly, but with a growing smile.

“The boys are out back,” he informed.

“Right,” she started that way.

“You want a beer?” he asked, gesturing to the fridge.

“Nah.”

“Coke?” he suggested, pulling the fridge open and holding up a Coke.

She perked up, “Yes.”

He grabbed a glass and filled it with ice and cola before following her out. He dragged a chair over for her and set her drink down.

“Boys, you remember Lane, Lane, the boys,” he gestured. She gave a slight wave. Bennett and Brooks were throwing a football. Collins and Shaw were sitting at the table with a third man, who was definitely military, but she didn’t recognize him.

“Mz. Lane,” Shaw greeted.

“Shaw,” she countered, “I think we can cut out the Mz.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he nodded.

She arched a brow.

“That’s Riffer,” Syverson informed sitting down, “Riffer, Lane.”

They exchanged pleasantries and she sat, inhaling her food. Syverson watched her, “Did you eat today?”

“Uhh,” she thought a moment, “I had breakfast, I think.”

The others were talking about something, she wasn’t really listening, simply eating and watching the football fly back and forth. Once she finished, she gathered her dirty dishes and put them in the dishwasher, she glanced around. As houses went, it was pretty sparse, granted he’d been out of country for the past 18 months or so, so that was to be expected. She glanced to the backyard, and then couldn’t help herself, she was gonna go snooping.

She was coming out of what had to be his bedroom when she tripped over a duffle bag.

“Ow, shit,” she muttered, hopping on one foot, she glanced down and froze. That, that looked suspiciously like a grenade of some kind. But more importantly, it looked like the same metal in her victim. She snatched it up and headed for the backyard.

“Babe,” she called, and Syverson’s head snapped her way, which okay, maybe this was the first time she’d called him anything asides from his name. “Babe, you’re a genius,” she came running out, bare feet slapping on the deck, and dropped the grenade on the table. Shaw and Riffer both shot back, one of them actually succeeding in overturning his chair.

Syverson’s hand shot out and he flipped it, showing that the pin was still in. “You were saying?” he drawled out.

“Tell me about this.”

His brow flicked upwards, “It’s a frag,” he stated slowly.

“Right, duh, but how do you get it, are you supposed to have it, what are other channels to come by one?”

“It’s issued by the U.S. Military, I’m technically not supposed to have it, and you can get them online.”

“You’re awesome, I love you, gotta go,” she snatched up the frag and turned, Sy’s hand shot out and encompassed her forearm, sliding to her wrist as she tried to keep moving. She turned back, brown eyes lit up with anticipation, “What?”

“This stays here,” he informed, extracting said frag from her hand.

“What? No, Sy,” she protested, “I need that for comparison.”

He shook his head, “No.”

“Alright, fine,” she agreed, way too easily, and once he let her go, she headed back into the house. He sat for a moment, gaze flicking to Shaw and Riffer who were both still standing at the edge of the deck, ready to run, then he muttered, “Shit,” and hurried after her. She’d already shoved her boots back on, had retrieved the other frag from his bag, and was heading for the door.

“Mz. Lane,” he drawled out, and she froze one hand on the doorknob, the other close to her body.

“Yes?” she asked turning slightly.

“Return the other frag.”

She grinned with absolutely no shame whatsoever, “C’mon, Sy, it’ll help solve my murder.”

He didn’t repeat himself, or try to rephrase, simply stared at her. She sighed dramatically, and turned, “Fine, can I at least take a picture?” she handed over the frag and pulled out her phone.

He nodded. She snapped a few shots, swiped through to make sure they were acceptable, then nodded, re-pocketing her phone.

“Awesome, gotta go,” she stood on tiptoes, could barely reach his mouth, so she mostly kissed his beard, then hurried for the door.

Syverson put the frags away, hid the duffle bag so she wouldn’t have easy access to it, and made his way back outside.

“She’s fucking terrifying,” Shaw stated, now seated, Riffer as well. “Is she always like that?” the man asked.

Shaw’s brows flicked up. “Listen, guy before you, he hated her, he shit all over the toilet seat, she bagged it and put it under his fucking pillow. Do not fuck with her.”

“How’d she get the shit in a bag?” Riffer asked. Shaw slanted a judgmental look his way. Riffer shrugged.

“She wore gloves,” Syverson deadpanned, taking a pull from his beer. Riffer gave a slight facial shrug and a nod, at least there was that.

*****

Jasmine hurried to the precinct, calling Reece, then Irene and Melv. It took three hours but Melv was able to work his magic, while she and Reece tried finding every possible bread crumb to lead to how the hell the guy wound up with half a frag in his rib cage.

She crashed at the precinct, woke back up at six in the morning, and they hit the ground running. They were able to trace the Adderall, it hadn’t been prescription, but street. Turned out, looked like the military had a slight drug problem. Hence the frag. They tracked the drugs though, to a civilian, went by Big J. And, surprise, surprise, Big J’s boy, had a plane and a pilot license. They got those two in separate interview rooms and they squealed within forty-five minutes. Music to her ears. Then of course, there was the dreaded paperwork. She was halfway through when the chair next to her was pulled out and immediately occupied, she glanced up to see Syverson with two take-out bags in hand.

“Know you don’t like spicy,” he informed, pulling items out. “Got cashew chicken, mixed vegetable, beef with vegetable.”

She perked up, “Cashew chicken.”

He slid it over, followed by a bag of spring rolls. She shot a hand out and grabbed his, gave a gentle squeeze and dropped it, “Thanks, Sy.”

“No problem, Lane.”

She grinned, then stabbed a water chestnut and shoved it into her mouth. 


	5. Stripper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Lane has the pleasure of meeting Captain Syverson's family.

Jasmine was _sated_. After two weeks of him being a tease and not delivering, to finally get down to business? Positively sated. She stretched languidly, her breathing had gone back to normal, Syverson made his way back into the bedroom, having disposed of the condom. He put a knee to the bed then laid back down, calloused hand reaching out and ghosting over her side. Down and up, from hip to the swell of her ribs. She was almost asleep when he spoke.

“You wanna have dinner with my family?” he asked out.

She blinked over at him, “Wha’?” she asked sleepily. “I thought—you said it was too early for family introductions.”

“Yeah, well, Marshall spilled to mom, and now she won’t stop asking about meeting you.”

She stared at him a moment, then reached hesitantly, wrapped her fingers around his thumb, she fidgeted slightly, “Do you want me to meet them?”

“Yeah. But if you aren’t comfortable…” he trailed off.

“So, it would be us, your three brothers, your mom, and your dad you’re not too fond of?”

“Dad will spend the evening being an ass to me, mom will overcompensate by being too nice. And my two younger brothers will talk over Marshall, because _he’s_ being an ass to everyone.”

Her brows flicked up, “Wow, you’ve got that figured out. Exactly how many women do you bring home on average?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, “In recent years? One.”

“What’s recent?”

“Five.”

“Hm. Once bitten, twice shy?”

“Or somethin’.”

“When’s this dinner taking place?” she asked.

“Thursday.”

She fell silent, gaze locked on his hand, gently moving his fingers one way then another. “I’m on call,” she informed, “But, yeah, sure.”

“How many bodies drop on a Thursday night anyway?” he asked, spreading his hand wide.

She grinned slightly, “You’d be surprised. Especially with the Thirsty Thursday crowd.” 

“Thirsty what?”

She shrugged, threading her fingers through his, “Just an excuse for people to go out and drink, happy hour, basically.”

He grunted slightly, then reached out, cupped her waist, “So?”

She blinked.

“Was the wait worth it?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Seeing as we could have been doing this for two weeks, Captain Self-Righteous, no, totally not worth the wait.”

He grinned, rolling in to her, “Just have to make up for the lost time,” he hovered over her, lips just out of reach. She tipped her head up, but he pulled back.

“Captain Tease, is more like it,” she muttered, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him down to her. She felt him grin into the kiss, well, so long as he was laughing.

*****

Jasmine decided that if she was meeting his entire immediate family, then she needed to break out the big guns—Chocolate Cream Pie. Baker’s chocolate chopped by hand, homemade custard, homemade whipped cream, chocolate graham cracker crust. Pure perfection. She made two. One to take to the dinner, one for backup, in case the dinner went so horribly wrong, she needed the comfort of an entire pie to herself. They were best chilled so she made them Wednesday night after work.

Thursday, Syverson picked her up, she came out with her special pie holder, with ice-packs carefully placed underneath the pie. He pulled his sunglasses off and demanded, “What is that?”

She stopped, looked a little bashful, “Pie.”

His brows flicked upwards, “You baked a pie?”

“Well…it didn’t require much baking, but yes.”

He didn’t say anything after that, just stared down at her.

“Are we going? Or are you gonna stare at me all night?” His lips quirked upwards the barest amount and he opened the door to his truck for her to climb up into. Once he started the truck and pulled away, he asked, “Why’d you bake a pie?”

“It’s what people do,” she stated, then muttered, “In movies.”

He sent her a curious look, figured this had something to do with the fact that her family apparently stabbed each other at their get-togethers, then asked, “What kind of pie?”

“Chocolate cream pie.”

“Whose recipe is it?”

“I found it online, I’ve made some amendments.”

“Uh-huh” he hummed out.

When they pulled up to the house, which was freaking awesome, it sat back from the road, a lot of acreage, a barn, animals to go with the barn, a wrap-around porch, hell it even had a turret. She stared at it blankly, then managed to ask out, “Did you grow up in this house?”

He cleared his throat slightly, “Yeah.”

“My mom always wanted a house with a turret,” she informed, she didn’t know why, it was like she had no self-control.

He watched her a moment, waited to see if she would offer up any other information, she didn’t. He pointed, “That’s Bartholomew.”

She followed his direction to see a giant black horse. “You named a horse ‘Bartholomew?”

He shrugged, then exited and rounded the truck, pulling her door open. She carefully extracted the pie and hopped down.

“In terms of horse names, it’s pretty tame.”

“What do you mean?”

“His sire was named Blaze of Enchantment.”

She stared at him, tripped over an uneven part of the gravel driveway. “Rich people are ridiculous,” she stated. He didn’t argue that fact, simply kept her from face planting in the pie or the gravel.

As soon as they stepped foot on the bottom stair of the awesome wrap-around porch the door flung open and a woman with graying black hair stepped out.

“Hank,” she breathed out, then stood on barefoot toes to throw her arms around him.

“Hey, Ma,” his head dipped down, voice low and raspy.

Jasmine blinked, he hadn’t come back to visit his family since he’d gotten back? _And_ he was introducing her? This was going to be a disaster. After a moment, they stepped back, his mother’s attention turned to her, and he gestured to her, “This is Jasmine Lane, Jasmine this is my mother Maribelle.”

Maribelle bounced on her toes, then engulfed her in an equally big hug, though doing so with courtesy to the pie. On the way over, Lane had slowly begun to panic, maybe she should be worried that Marshall had told Sy’s mom some awful things about her, it seemed that worrying was pointless because the woman was currently squeezing the breath out of her—in a friendly way. Maribelle pulled back, hands on Lane’s shoulders and smiled, “I’m so glad to meet you, Jasmine.”

That was so heartfelt and earnest she didn’t know what to do, so instead she held the pie up between them and stated, “I made this for you.”

Maribelle smiled and accepted her stilted offering, holding it in one hand she hooked arms with her and led her into the awesome house, which was equally awesome on the inside as it was on the outside. The ceilings were high, custom doors, high arches, hardwood floors with lush looking rugs. Maribelle disappeared to her left, bringing her attention to a dazzling kitchen, in front of her was a broad staircase leading up, and a hallway leading further into the house, and to her right was what looked like a living room of some kind. She totally did not belong, absolutely, one hundred percent, did. Not. Belong.

Sy’s hand brushed over her hip, “You good?” he asked quietly, but she didn’t have time to answer because two large bodies were sprinting towards him and slamming into him. Violent hugs, back slapping, yelling, and cussing. It was a dog pile that ended with Sy wrapping one brother up in a headlock, and the other was wheezing audibly on the ground.

“This is Evan,” Sy pointed to the top of the head tucked into his side. “That’s Will,” he nodded to the wheezing brother. He jerked his chin towards the doorway, “You know Marshall.”

She gave an awkward wave, “Hey.”

“How the hell,” Evan started, finally managing to squeeze his head free, mostly because Sy let him, “Are you dating someone? You’ve been back like three weeks.”

“She’s not a stripper, is she?” Will asked, rolling then crawling into standing.

Sy smacked him on the back of the head, “Show some respect,” he muttered, shoving him. “No, she isn’t a stripper.”

Jasmine blinked, did she look like a stripper? She’d worn her usual skinny jeans, but she’d worn knee-high boots with the same short heel, a long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan, she thought she looked nice. 

Evan shoved Will and the two disappeared into the living room, shoving and pushing as they went.

“Is now the wrong time to tell you I went undercover as an exotic dancer while working for sex crimes?” she muttered out of the side of her mouth.

Sy stared down at her then broke out into a full-on laugh, oh, wow, okay, she’d put up with his family for that laugh. He wrapped his arm low around her waist and started walking, “Let’s go find my dad, get that shit over with.”

His dad was through the living room and in what looked to be a part rec room part study. It was posh and practically yelled ‘money’. The man was honest to god smoking a pipe and reading. She sent Sy a look, and he looked a tad irritated. His dad heard their approach and glanced up, “Hank,” he stated, no smile, no jumping up and down, just _Hank_. He stood up and shook Sy’s hand, his son had been out of country for a year and a half and he shook his hand? His dad then glanced over her as if she were a particularly uninteresting cockroach.

“Dad, this is Jasmine, Jasmine, my dad Charles.”

Charles pulled the pipe from his mouth and extended his hand, “Jasmine,” he stated, apparently only able to converse by stating someone’s name, interesting. She shook his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“Is it?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, wow, what a dick. How did he wind up marrying someone like Maribelle?

“I suppose that remains to be seen,” she amended.

His lips quirked upwards the barest amount, she saw a bit of Sy there, when he did. Charles went back to his book and pipe, Lane followed Sy back through the living room. Off in the corner they had a little bar, equipped with mostly whiskey, but there was a small fridge full of beer as well.

“Hank!” Maribelle’s voice called. “Be right back,” he muttered.

“Here,” his younger brother, Will, held out a glass of whiskey to her.

“No, thanks,” she shook her head.

“Beer more your thing?” his youngest brother, Evan, asked.

“No, I’m good.”

“Hank, this is no good, you’re hookin’ up with an uptight broad who won’t drink with us,” Evan called. Sy appeared in the kitchen doorway and stated, “Seeing as she’s on call, I don’t think her being uptight has anything to do with it.”

“On call for what?” Evan muttered moving away. Sy made his way back in, “Sweet tea?” he asked, holding out a glass.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the glass and taking a sip of sweet, sweet heaven.

“Dinner’s ready, y’all,” Maribelle called, everyone fell on the dining room like locusts. Sy shoved Will out of a chair and sat, holding out the one next to it for her. This unfortunately meant, she was sitting next to Marshall. There was eating and praise of the food, then general catching up, finally the questions turned to her.

“So, what do you do?” His father asked, and wasn’t that a loaded question?

“I’m a detective,” she informed.

“A detective,” he repeated slowly, like he’d never heard the word.

She nodded, taking a sip of her sweet tea.

“And what kind of detective are you?”

“She told me she’d been shot,” Marshall cut in.

“Homicide,” she informed, ignoring Marshall’s quip.

“Ah,” Charles muttered, “Were you planning on investigating your own murder, then?”

This family was full of snarky assholes, “It was an accident. We got a call about a dead body, but it had gotten up and walked away before we got to the scene. I was going door-to-door interviewing. Five-year-old accidentally shot me.”

“And how did you and Hank meet?” Maribelle asked, it was weird, hearing everyone call him Hank, she only called him that on the rare occasion. In Iraq, it was simply Sy or Syverson—Captain or Sir, if you were in trouble.

“Uhm,” she hummed out, glancing to Sy, “I think that’s classified?” she asked, rather than stated.

Sy nodded, “Yeah.”

“But you’re a detective, what would you have to do with classified?” Will asked. Shit, okay, Sy was gonna have to deal with this, she was ill prepared for badgering family members. She shoved a roasted potato into her mouth.

“Classified,” he grunted, stuffing a forkful of roast into his mouth.

“You’ve told us classified shit before,” Evan accused.

“I’ve told you shit that you _thought_ was classified,” Sy countered.

“I still think she’s a stripper,” Will muttered.

“William,” Maribelle ground out, voice low and dangerous. _Yikes_. She needed an out like forty minutes ago.

“So then how long have you known each other?” Charles continued his interrogation.

Jasmine glanced to Sy, who nodded slightly, damn, it wasn’t classified.

“’Bout six months,” she informed.

“And you never mentioned her.”

She deemed that bad in Charles’ eyes.

“What’d you want me to say? I met a girl, but it’s classified?” he asked, the tension in his voice was barely there, but she could make it out.

“Where were you shot?” Charles changed tactics.

“On my person?” she asked for clarification.

A simple nod was her response.

“Took it to the lung,” she informed, not supplying additional information, since the man was such an outgoing chatterbox himself.

His gaze slanted to Sy, “And you think this is a good idea,” he noted.

Sy stared back, “She’s hardworking and has a real job.” He stated. She took that to mean he had had significant others in the past who didn’t have a “real job”.

“Yes, a real job, but she’s nearly died once already,” Charles was speaking out of his ass, she’d almost died at least three times since meeting Syverson.

“I’ve nearly died since meeting her, should she dump my ass because of my job?”

By the grace of whatever higher powers existed, her phone started buzzing, thank baby jesus, she cleared her throat cutting through the growing tension, and pulled out her phone. She stood with a muttered “excuse me”, then started for the kitchen. She heard Sy explaining that she was on call as she brought the phone to her ear.

“This is Lane.”

“Lane, got a body,” Hughes’ informed.

“Thank you jesus,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, nothing. Address?”

“Right,” he rattled off the address.

“Got it, be there in about twenty,” she hung up, pocketing her phone, before taking a breath and striding back into the dining room.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

“Well,” Sy’s father sat back in his chair, “The two of you are perfect for each other.”

Jasmine didn’t react, Sy’s fork clattered to his plate, he wiped at his mouth, and stood. Stiltedly ignoring his father, he rounded the table and bent over his mom, giving her a kiss on the cheek, “Thanks for dinner, ma,” he murmured. 

“It was great meeting everyone,” no, it really wasn’t, the only one she actually liked was his mother. “Help yourselves to the pie,” she added, as Sy ushered her out.

Sy yanked the passenger door open for her, before rounding the vehicle and getting into the driver’s seat. Both hands on the wheel, he slumped forward slightly and sighed heavily, “That was a shitfest,” he muttered out, sitting back and wiping at his face. “We aren’t doing this shit again, you were great, they were awful, I’m sorry.”

She glanced his way, he looked miserable, “I like your mom.”

He grinned slightly in the dark, “Yeah,” he muttered, shoving the key into the ignition. “Mom’s good.”

“Your youngest brother wasn’t…too bad.”

“He still has a little bit of hero worship,” he mused, “He’ll grow out of it and be an asshole like the rest of ‘em.” He drove for a minute then, “Where am I taking you? You wanna get your car?”

“Nah,” she shook her head, then supplied the address, “Reece will give me a ride back.”

He nodded, flipping on his turn signal. “Shit,” he muttered, hand reaching out and grabbing hers, giving a playful squeeze, “I didn’t get any pie.”

She suppressed a grin, “I made two.”

He glanced her way, looking cautiously optimistic, “Serious?”

“Yup,” she nodded.

They pulled up to the crime scene, and she started out, pausing before she shut the door, she asked, “You wanna come over and eat pie for dinner tomorrow?”

“Shit yes,” he grinned slightly.

“Beautiful,” she nodded, starting to close the door, for him to reach over and grab her arm, he gave a tug and pulled her close.

“Thanks for putting up with my crazy family.”

“No one got stabbed, I don’t think you can call them crazy,” she countered, his lips twitched in amusement, “Stupid family,” he amended, she bopped her head in acceptance. “Sure,” she nodded, “No problem.”

His eyes went soft and he muttered, “Can I kiss you at a crime scene or is it considered an extension of work?”

“I think I can make an exception.” It was dark after all, and they were on the intersecting street, a few houses away. He didn’t say anything, simply pressed forward, brushed his lips against hers gently, then surged forward, teeth nipping teasingly. He pulled back after a moment, her eyes opened and she studied his lips, then she pulled back and offered a small grin, “thanks for the ride,” she murmured, then hip checked the door closed and strode up to the crime scene tape. She flashed her id as Irene was striding up as well. Her gaze on the Syverson’s truck.

“Is that Sy?” the medical examiner demanded.

Lane arched a brow but maintained her silence.

“What? No, keep him here!” Irene demanded.

Lane grinned and ducked under the tape.

*****

Lane had just walked through the front door of her house when her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

“Lane,” she mumbled out, dropping her keys on the table, and promptly yanking her boots off. After a long night and day of working her crime scene, that pie was calling her name.

“Good news or bad news?” Sy’s voice greeted.

“Bad news.”

“I’m held up at the BMV, and I still gotta hit the house and let Aika out, gonna be late.”

“And the good news?”

“Apparently, you’ve won everyone over with your chocolate pie.”

She could perhaps buy that for everyone, save one person, “Except Marshall,” she amended for him.

“Marshall’s a dick.”

She snorted out a laugh, “At least he didn’t call me a stripper.”

“Will’s also a dick.”

“Just bring Aika here,” she suggested, “I have a fenced-in yard, she can run around.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, mostly because if you don’t get here in the next hour, I’m eating the pie myself.”

“I’ll pick up pizza, please don’t eat it all, even my dad called to tell me how good it was,” he pled, voice just the slightest bit desperate.

She grinned slightly, “No promises, Syverson,” then hung up.

Thirty-seven minutes later she heard his truck pull up. She opened the door, padded out barefoot, he opened the truck door and Aika hoped out, glancing around and snuffling through her front yard.

“Aika,” she called, the dog whirled around, “C’mere, baby,” she cooed. Aika’s tail started wagging, butt wiggling, and she bounded towards her. She was in the middle of patting Aika and baby-talking her, when Sy stepped up onto the porch, two pizza’s in hand.

“Definitely only with me for the dog.”

“Not _only_ the dog,” she countered standing, putting a hand on his arm to balance herself so she could kiss him, “You bring me food too.”

He slanted a look over her, grinning slightly, “Can we eat the pie first?”

“You won’t eat any pizza if you eat the pie first.”

His head tipped back and he stared at the roof of the porch, she kinda thought he was going to throw a tantrum, “Fine,” he sighed, head dropping and starting into the house, “Aika,” he called, and the dog bounded after him.

They ate pizza on the back porch, Sy throwing a slobbery ball for Aika. Once she had run herself tired, they finished their pizza and went inside, the slobbery muddy ball stayed on the porch. Jasmine was cutting and dishing up the pie while Sy scrubbed his hands clean and filled a bowl of water for the dog. 

She cut two large pieces and set the plates to the side, dropped the knife and spatula in the sink, grabbed up two forks and held out a plate to Sy, as they made their way into the living room, turning on the TV to watch a hockey game.

“This better than the brownies?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded.

“You sure?” he asked, fork slicing through the pie.

“You tell me,” she muttered, slicing a forkful for herself. He took a bite and groaned. “Shit,” he muttered, voice breathy and unbelieving, “I thought the brownies were good.”

She grinned, licking whipped cream off the side of her fork, “Told you.”

“You let my asshole family eat this. They aren’t worthy.”

“Technically, I gave it to your mom, she’s worthy. Speaking of,” she shifted, bringing her feet up and crisscrossing her legs, “Do you think she’d share her bread roll recipe?”

“Maybe. She might want something in return.”

She blinked, then her eyes narrowed in thought, she wasn’t sure if she was willing to share her pie recipe, maybe her brownie recipe?

“I’m kidding, Lane,” he grinned, “She’ll share it.”

She smiled, sitting up a little, “Oh, good, they were yummy.” They fell into a comfortable silence and then she asked with a devilish grin, “So, how many strippers have you brought home to meet your family?”


	6. Kiss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Syverson surprises Detective Lane with a change in appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet y'all, sorry about that.

Lane was late, they were having a get together with her friends, some of his friends at her place. Beer, burgers, whatever. Syverson’s R and R was coming to and end, he’d have to start going to work in a week and a half for his home station assignment. She’d gotten held up with an unruly suspect, then she’d had to stop at the grocery store.

She closed the door behind her, turned, and froze. Syverson was standing there, which wasn’t all that weird, the weird part was that he had no beard. She blinked.

“Oh my god,” she muttered staring at him.

He cleared his throat, shifted his weight the slightest amount, which on a lesser man would have looked far more hesitant and dare she say _bashful_. She took a few steps still staring, he was _chiseled_ , his jaw line was sharp, what the hell? She crossed to him and stopped far too close, neck craning back so she could stare up at him.

Any time she had a fresh wax or shave, he always had his hands running up and down her legs, she was going to return the favor.

“Can I touch your face?” she asked though, that was the polite thing to do, after all.

He grunted, she took that as affirmative and reached up, running the back of her hand against his cheek, she grinned. “You’re so,” she paused, _pretty_ , the word she was thinking was pretty, and currently caught in the weird haze of seeing her man’s face for the first time, she whispered it out, loud enough to travel across the empty house. “Pretty.”

He looked irritated, not like, pissed off irritated, but exasperated. “And that is why I prefer a beard.”

She squinted up at him, probably in an effort to keep her lips from curling into a grin, but she couldn’t help it, “Why? Because you’re attractive?”

He grunted again.

“Did the mean drill sergeant call you a ‘pretty boy’, Sy?”

He grumbled, turning and heading towards the kitchen, she grabbed his wrist and he turned, she jumped up, legs wrapping around his waist, his arms went under her on instinct, held her up. Now he had to tip his head back, she continued grinning down at him, both hands cupping either side of his smooth, smooth face.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, he obliged, very cut chin tipping upwards, one hand threading through her hair and pulling her down, and _wow_ , this was nice. They were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. She sighed heavily, _damnit_ , “We’re not done,” she stated.

A smirk worked its way up his lips, and she got to see it in full, completely unhindered by the lack of a beard. He lowered her to the ground. Seriously, what the hell, this was seriously uncool, he was forever breaking the laws of nature. She turned and crossed to the door, and answered as the doorbell rang out, Reece and his wife Alexis.

“Hey dude,” she greeted, waved them in. Alexis gave Sy an appraising look, a well-manicured brow arched as she glanced her way but she didn’t say anything asides from her usual greeting.

She and Alexis were in the kitchen working on preparing some dips when the doorbell went off again.

“Got it,” Reece called. She glanced to the door to see Samantha step in, grocery bags weighing her down. Her blonde friend stepped in, greeting Reece before starting for the kitchen. But as she continued scanning the room, Samantha tripped when her gaze landed on Sy, grocery bags going everywhere, Sy was gracious and helped her out, picking up bags and bringing them into the kitchen.

“Who is that?” Samantha demanded, after all of the groceries were accounted for, unfortunately Samantha’s pride was still missing. Alexis let out a small laugh.

Jasmine blinked, “Who?”

“What do you mean _who_?” Samantha demanded, “ _That_.”

Jasmine looked over her shoulder to Sy who was in the living room talking with Reece. Sy in his typical wide legged, arms crossed stance.

“What do _you_ mean ‘who is that’ that’s Sy, you’ve met him like, ten times.”

Samantha turned wide-eyed, “What?”

Jasmine blinked, “Did you hit your head when you tripped?”

“You mean to tell me that your man has been hiding _that_ ,” Samantha gestured with clawed fingers at her own face, “Under all that Chewbacca?”

“Honestly, I was more surprised than you were.”

Samantha stared, “Girl, you didn’t know you were walking around with a freakin’ Calvin Klein model?”

“I told you, I’ve never seen him without the beard.”

Samantha looked like her head was imploding. “I take back everything I said about him.”

Jasmine shook her head.

“Girl, shut up,” Alexis cut in, voice light hearted, but speaking truth. “He’s still the same dude, you a’int into it.”

“If I knew he looked like _that_ , I would have been.”

“He’s still too down and dirty and you’re still too high maintenance.”

Jasmine cleared her throat, “Not to mention off the market.”

“I mean, on principal,” Samantha waved her hand dismissively. Jasmine rolled her eyes.

*****

“What’s with the shaving?” she asked cheek resting on his chest. His fingers ghosted up her bare back.

“First few months, unless the world goes to shit, no chance of going on special assignment, have to be clean shaven.”

“Hmm,” she hummed out.

“Why? You like it better?”

“Dunno,” she mused, “Kinda like the beard, kinda like seeing your smile.”

He made a weird noise that was part grunt part strangled surprise. He dipped his chin and grumbled out, “Kiss me.”

She grinned and angled up his body, she could do that.


End file.
